


the heart is calling, calling, calling

by midnightroom



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bisexuality, Coming Out, F/M, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Self-Acceptance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-14 08:48:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18049349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightroom/pseuds/midnightroom
Summary: Steve gets himself a bi pin.It's a silly little thing, really. Just a tiny circle of metal he fastens onto the backpack in the corner of his bedroom. It shouldn't be a big deal, and yet—somehow, it is.It's just—he didn't know there was a word for it, for the longest time.





	the heart is calling, calling, calling

**Author's Note:**

> okay, listen......i know this is probably corny as hell but 1) i love being bisexual; 2) i love steve; 3) i love sam; 4) i love steve embracing his bisexuality after years of internal conflict and guilt! that's honestly it. hope you enjoy!

Steve gets himself a bi pin.

It's a silly little thing, really. Just a tiny circle of metal he fastens onto the backpack in the corner of his bedroom. It shouldn't be a big deal, and yet—somehow, it is.

It's just—he didn't know there was a word for it, for the longest time.

He didn't know there was a word that encompassed the way his stomach swooped feverishly when Bucky stumbled into their apartment after a date, dark hair mussed and eyes gleaming wickedly; for the warmth that gathered molasses-heavy in Steve's veins every time they watched the sunset from the fire escape, passing a bottle of beer back and forth with their fingers touching feather-light and ankles hooked together; for the all-consuming relief that had flooded Steve's chest when Bucky lifted his head from that metal table in Azzano, gaze bleary, and said Steve's name.

He didn't know there was a word that had room for the way he'd loved—he loves—Peggy, for the impossibly straight line of her back and her spitfire wit and soft chestnut curls that always smelled of lavender shampoo, even on the battlefront; for the way they'd sat together in the car as Brooklyn flashed by, their arms so close they kept brushing against each other, and she'd listened to him talk, rapt, as if there was nowhere else she'd rather be; for the tender, sure press of her red-lipsticked mouth against his lips as they sped through the tunnel, the wind rushing in their ears like an endless wail and Steve's heart drumming out an erratic rhythm in his chest.

And now, in the twenty-first century, this thing—whatever it is—with Sam, who goes jogging with Steve on brisk, sun-soaked D.C. mornings and laughs good-naturedly when he lags behind, who keeps a stack of vinyls by his brown leather sofa to play through when Steve comes over, who swigs orange juice (extra pulp) straight from the carton, who treats Steve not as a relic to handle gingerly or as an asset to wield like a weapon, but as a friend.

Sam, who slings his arm heavily around Steve's shoulders and leans in so close it's a wonder he can't see the spotty pink blush blooming across Steve's cheeks, who somehow has an inexhaustible supply of both soothing words and snappy remarks, who has clever hands and brown eyes that are bright and kind and a charming gap between his front teeth. Sam, who has a soft-looking mouth that Steve wants to fit against his own and kiss and kiss and kiss.

It's nice to know that there's a word for that. That it's okay. That it's real.

* * *

The thing about Steve is, he's made a habit of many things over the years.

Then: nicking cigarettes from Bucky even though they made his lungs rattle with each drag, never properly tucking his shirts into his pants, biting his ink-stained nails until they felt as raw as his scraped knuckles, recklessly walking the precipice between life and death too many times.

Now: making lists of things with a compulsiveness that frightens him, ordering takeout from the Thai place down the block too often, promising anyone who asks (Sam, mostly) that he's seeing a therapist when he never has and doesn't plan to, flinging himself from airplanes with white noise blaring through his ears and no parachute on his back.

Among other things.

He's never, _never_ made a habit of lying, though, and there's something about liking women and men at the same time that feels fundamentally dishonest. He can't quite place his finger on why. Maybe it's the two-facedness of it. The duality, the coexistence of two ways of being that shouldn't be able to coexist.

It just doesn't seem—possible. That he can like men and women. It always seems possible in the moment, easy and inevitable to let himself love, to ache with a warm, comfortable longing, but it makes him feel sick to his stomach when he thinks about it too hard, even now.

There's the issue of falling in love with a man, for one thing. Things have changed greatly in the twenty-first century, but back in his day—he _hates_ that phrase, it makes him want to roll his eyes, it makes him feel about ninety years old, which he guesses he technically is—any relationship with a man would have to be a clandestine one, relegated to closed doors and subtle touches. Two men just couldn't have the easy, joyful, public love married couples did. It wasn't right; it wasn't allowed. The fact that it's okay now, that people don't mind like they used to is of little comfort to him. Catholic guilt clings to his consciousness like charcoal stains the fingertips.

Or maybe that isn't even the issue; maybe it's a scapegoat for something he's reluctant to look deeper into. If Steve's being honest about it, he's never been one to let others tell him what's right and what's wrong. Maybe the real issue is—how could he be so selfish as to want both? It isn't fair. He can't. Maybe the real issue is being with someone and seeming for all the world as one thing, when Steve knows deep down he isn't adequately enough of either. To lie to the person he loves just to escape their disgust at the wrongness of it all, to try to futilely break free of this strange fatal flaw, this sick oscillation.

One way or another, someone in the equation is always being deluded.

Maybe, Steve thinks, some part of this isn't real at all and he's actually straight, or actually gay. Maybe he's the one deluding himself. Surely, he'd reasoned once, a long time ago, staring at the draped ceiling of a canvas tent in the dark, some part of his attraction just couldn't be genuine.

The problem is—and always has been—figuring out which part.

* * *

The thing about Sam is, he's impossibly easy to talk to.

It's the middle of April, but there's some kind of freak snowstorm churning over D.C. They spend time together in Sam's house instead of outside, curled up on the couch. It's a fairly spacious one, as couches go, but they're sitting together so close the seams of their jeans are touching. Sam's socked feet are halfway into Steve's lap, and Sam's face is right there, where Steve can see each brush of his unfairly-long eyelashes against his cheek when he blinks. It's taking everything in him not to reach out and trace his fingers across the bow of Sam's lips, across his eyebrows. To keep his focus on the words Sam's saying instead of just the low, smooth quality of his voice. To quell the little jump of his heart in his chest every time they shift closer.

It should be frightening, how gone he is. It should disgust him. It doesn't, though. Being around Sam feels so comfortable and right Steve can't muster up that feeling of acute wrongness that makes his blood go cold and heavy. He tries not to dwell on it, mostly. Just lets himself feel.

Sam's talking about Riley. He's mentioned him plenty of times before, his mouth settling into something fond around his name, his eyes going soft. Steve knows about Riley's kid sister and the exact way he'd laugh when Sam would crack a joke and the color of the rosary beads he'd kept in his pocket all through the war. It doesn't feel like Riley's dead. It feels like he's someone Steve would run into a party and clap on the back and tease Sam with.

But he's dead, no matter how much people out there wish he wasn't. No matter how much Sam wishes he wasn't. Steve knows something about that, the wishing part. The watching-people-fall-from-the-sky-and-standing-there-helpless-to-do-anything-about-it part. The wanting-more-than-anything-you'd-fallen-instead part. They've left that last one unspoken, but he knows Sam feels it too. He and Sam have a lot in common.

There's a comfortable lull in the conversation when Sam trails off. Frank Ocean's voice croons softly from the record player by the bookshelf, crackly and warm.

"You know," Sam says suddenly. "I never told Riley I was in love with him. Before he died."

And that— _that_ makes Steve abruptly sit up straight. Snaps him out of something. Drains all the warmth from the room. Sam's words swirl around in his head, flurrying furiously like the snowflakes of the storm raging outside, so white and dense it's near-impossible to see even your hands in front of you.

"In love with him," he repeats.

Sam freezes and looks at him, unblinking, for one long moment. It stretches out so impossibly long Steve fears for a second it'll snap and shatter in their hands, cut up both their palms.

"You—you've mentioned girlfriends before. You've fallen in love with women," Steve says, trying to fill up the strange silence that widens like a ravine when Sam doesn't respond. There's a weird faltering to his words, a desperation creeping into his voice that even he can hear. He doesn't know what he wants Sam to say—laugh it off, or confirm it, or deny it. Or something.

"Yeah," Sam says finally, the word a flat and jagged thing in his mouth. "I've fallen in love with women and men. Both. All. I'm bisexual."

The snowstorm in Steve's head eases up a little. "Oh," he breathes. And then, when Sam's face stays the same: "I didn't know that was—possible. Or okay." His voice is low, quiet.

Just like that, Sam's eyes go from defensive and steely to soft, sympathetic—not pitying though. Never pitying. Steve loves him for that.

"Steve," he says. Nothing else.

Steve swallows, fidgets under Sam's gaze. He can feel his cheeks heating up again. That much isn't out of the ordinary, at least.

Sam looks at him more earnestly than Steve thinks anyone has ever looked at him.

"Steve," he says again. "You're allowed to, you know. Like men and women." He reaches out and takes Steve's face in his hands, presses his palms firmly to Steve's cheeks. (Steve pretends like his heart doesn't pick up its pace, pattering wildly against his ribcage.) Sam's eyebrows are knit in determination, like this is something he desperately needs Steve to understand. "You're allowed to be bisexual. It's perfectly okay. It's fine."

Sam is the best person Steve knows. Steve can't think of a single time he's been wrong about anything of any sort of importance. Can't think of a single time he hasn't been anything but giving and selfless and brave. Can't find it in him to disagree.

So Steve nods, and all at once, something nebulous and vague sharpens into coherence, clicks into place in the depths of his mind. Forgiveness floods his lungs like bright, clean sunlight. The snowstorm clears. True, the ice will take some time to melt, but the brunt of the storm is gone, and all that is left is relief, and gratitude, and possibility, if Steve wants.

He's allowed to like both. It's perfectly okay. He could lean forward and kiss Sam right now.

Instead, he puts his hand over Sam's, where it's warm and grounding against his cheekbone, and keeps it there when Sam flips it over, curls their fingers around each other.

* * *

Steve walks to the nice bookstore near the park.

It's a warm, balmy day. All the snow has melted and the trees are newly green again, the flower buds sprinkled across their branches curled shut, waiting for the perfect time to bloom. He wears an unremarkable cap low over his eyes (plus sunglasses for good measure) and pretends he doesn't see people's gazes cling to him as he walks down the street, the spark of near-recognition flickering in their gazes.

 _I need a better disguise_ , he thinks.

When Steve gets to the bookstore, he heads past the table of bestsellers; past the people sitting at the café, sipping contentedly at their coffee; past the aisle of history books he finds himself spending hours in, paging through books about all the things he'd missed, about the Cold War and second-wave feminism.

Instead, he heads to the back of the bookstore, where they have bins of old CDs and 20% off on fuzzy Catcher in the Rye socks and an entire wall of buttons and enamel pins. It's immensely tempting to take a fistful of them home. Already the front of his bag is filling up with them; he even has a stupid Captain America shield pin Sam had given him because he'd thought it was funny. (It _is_ kind of funny, and Sam knows it.)

Steve crosses his arms and scans the wall, skipping over the zodiac symbol buttons and cat pins. He's certain he'd seen one with the bi flag on here before; he remembers thinking what a striking flag it was, wondering what it could stand for.

He finds it at the bottom of the display, right between the gay pride flag and the trans flag. He picks it up, marveling again at what a pretty flag it is. The vibrant pink on top, the blue at the bottom, the violet sandwiched in between the two. When he folds his fingers around it, it is small and smooth and round in his palm, a shield in miniature.

When he steps back out into the sunlight, it is pinned to the front pocket of his jacket. He checks his phone for the time, holds back a small smile when he catches the pin's pink-purple-blue reflection in the darkened screen. It turns out it is 2:34 p.m. He has a date with Sam at 3 p.m. sharp, and Steve's sure he can make it in time if he walks fast enough.

And if he's a little late, well. Sam will understand. He always does.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! feedback is always much appreciated!
> 
> also, if you'd like to read more about the bi flag (which is imo really a lovely flag), you're welcome to start [here](http://www.queerarthistory.com/love-between-women/michael-page-bisexual-pride-flag-1998/#page)!


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